A Ghost's Goodnight
by The Writer's Life
Summary: "Newt didn't know how he could still be present on Earth, since he was dead, but he didn't question it. " After dying, Newt is still present on Earth, and discovers there is one thing he still must do before he or Thomas can move on.


**A Ghost's Goodnight**

 **A/N: This is my first ever time writing for the Maze Runner universe. I absolutely fell in love with the books, and Newt fascinated me as a character, so I decided to write this. Please enjoy!**

Boy. There was a boy in front of Newt, a boy who looked familiar, a boy with dark hair and greenish-brown eyes, a boy who wasn't too tall and had scratches and cuts all over his body, a boy who was holding a gun with trembling hands. The name Thomas sprang to his mind, yet it didn't seem right. Tommy. That made more sense. Tommy. It would always be Tommy to him.

Screaming. He was screaming something at Tommy. Or maybe Tommy was screaming at him? Someone was screaming. He knew that much, and judging by the way Tommy's horrified expression was coupled with unshed tears in his eyes, the screaming wasn't good. Everything was so bloody _fuzzy_ , if he could just _think_ , if he could just...

Flesh on flesh. Tommy was on the ground, and he was on top of him, pinning him to the ground, his hands wrapped around Tommy's wrists, and still with the _screaming._ Tommy was talking, talking, saying something, but he couldn't register it.

Gun. He took the hand Tommy was holding a gun with and guided the barrel to his own head. He vaguely realized that he was screaming for Tommy to kill him, and Tommy, for some shuck reason, was saying no. Why wouldn't he kill him? He was just a Crank, a bloody, worthless Crank, not even good enough to resist the Flare, and even before. Who was he?

And clarity. Suddenly, Newt was hit was a flash of sanity. He remembered Alby before he had gotten stung. He remembered little Chuck, who had died a hero. He remembered Winston and Frypan and all the other Gladers. He remembered Minho, sprinting out from the Maze everyday with a sarcastic comment and a smug half-grin. And, _oh_ , he remembered Tommy, running into the Maze after complete strangers, crying over a little boy's death, trying so hard to beat the Flare not for himself but for a friend. And there Tommy was, pinned underneath his diseased body, and Newt knew; he knew that Tommy would not fail him.

He had tried something of the sort before. Now that Tommy was here, nothing could go wrong. Despite everything, he was glad it would be Tommy. He was leaving the world on his own terms; a middle finger to bloody WICKED.

"Please, Tommy, Please." He gasped out.

The blast of a gun.

And then nothingness.

Newt opened his eyes.

"What the bloody..." he mumbled while looking around him. There was sand. He was in a desert, but he really wasn't there. He didn't feel hot, he didn't feel a dry wind beating against his face, and he didn't feel the heavy air weighing on his shoulders. He tested put more weight than he usually would on his old-injured leg, and didn't feel any pain, which was almost as strange. Despite all that, he recognized one thing above all others: the madness that the Flare brought was gone, and that could only mean one thing. He was dead.

Newt didn't know how he could still be present on Earth, since he was dead, but he didn't question it. Shuck, stranger things had happened in his life.

Each second seemed to last a year. He looked around, and saw a sight so disturbing that he wished he could die all over again. There was Tommy, still pinned under his own lifeless body, his eyes squeezed shut. Tommy let out a strangled, almost inhuman, gasp, and shoved Newt's body away. It was interesting, watching his own body flop lifelessly to the ground. With that, Tommy ran away to a waiting van without a look back. Newt didn't blame him. Tommy was strong, stronger than he was, and if the roles had been reversed, if he had been forced to kill Tommy, he didn't know if he would have been able to pull the trigger.

Newt approached his own body with a sense of morbid curiousity. He hadn't seen himself in a long time. His skin was red and brown, cracked from disease and sun exposure. The skin on his lips was flaky, and his blue eyes, still wide open, staring into the blaring sun, were bloodshot and rimmed with red. His blonde hair was long, past his shoulders, and he had bald patches, presumably where he had ripped his own hair out. There were wounds around his wrists and neck, presumably from where he had been chained up. His clothes were near shreds. Then, there was that bullet hole in the middle of his forehead. Newt shuddered. He was glad Tommy had run and not looked to see the wound he had put there.

Some things really were worse than death. Newt looked around. So this was death. He was trapped as a ghost. That probably meant there was still something he had to do. It was always the bloody case, trial after trial.

Newt stared after the trail of dust that the van had left. Tommy. He had to make sure Tommy was okay, and only after he made sure of that, he could finally rest.

Newt thought it would all be over. Newt thought he would fade to nothingness. He had watched as Tommy had walked straight into WICKED, had watched with panic as Ratman prepared to take Tommy's brain away, had watched with pride as Thomas escaped and led a group of immunes through the Maze. He had watched Teresa die with a small twinge of sadness, and had briefly wondered if she was a ghost, too. He had watched Minho and Tommy leap through the Flat Trans together with happiness, was somehow transported through as well (he didn't question bloody anything any more), and gazed upon his two best friends in the world as they embraced, safe at last. He had watched as Brenda and Thomas had sat together, pondering what the future held.

That was nearly three months ago.

Newt could see everything at all times. He was a ghost; he didn't sleep. Somehow, it wasn't driving him mad. It allowed him to take care of his friends in his own special way, the same way he always did.

Minho wasn't doing perfect, but he was doing okay. Some days, Newt would just sit and watch as Minho took charge of everything, just like he always did. The shank was a natural leader. Within those months, he had established a job system, a housing system, an agricultural system, and many other things that should have been impossible after only three months. People respected him, girls flirted with him, and Newt could see that Minho loved it.

He only showed how deeply everything had affected him, Newt noticed, when he was with Tommy or when he would alone. Newt watched when Minho would wake up from a nightmare or break down after a stressful day, but he always managed to calm himself down.

Tommy, oh, how bloody different it was with Tommy. The shank wouldn't know how to be unproblematic if someone gave him step-by-step instructions. None of the jobs seemed to fit Tommy's skill set, so he just rotated from task to task. He did all of this with a stony, troubled mask, yet whenever Minho asked what was wrong, Tommy would shrug him off, and Newt grew more angry and concerned with that with each passing day. Tommy couldn't bottle everything up; it would ultimately destroy him.

The nightmares were the worst. It was like watching a bad accident: Newt couldn't look away. They happened every two days or so. Tommy would just lay in bed for hours when night fell, just staring at the ceilings. Some nights he would cry, other nights he would just fall asleep. That's when it started.

Tommy would twitch once or twice in his sleep, twist around a little bit, and then start to thrash. Some nights Newt worried that he would strangle himself in the blankets. Then, the talking started.

Some nights, it was, "Chuck, no, no, no."

Some nights it was, "Teresa! Teresa, I'm sorry."

Some nights, it was, "I don't want to die, please, I don't know what's going on."

Some nights, though, some terrible nights, it was, "Newt, please don't make me do it. Newt, I don't want to please don't make me NEWT! Don't make me, please, please, please... Minho, Minho, he's going to hate me, he doesn't know, don't make me..."

Those nights were the worst, but Newt still watched, a tear in his phantom heart.

Tommy would wake up afterwards, screaming. He would hyperventilate on some occasions, while other times he would just curl up in a ball. The dreams weren't rational, they were full of the traumas of Tommy's short past, and Newt couldn't stand it. He just wanted it all to be over.

Tonight was a bad night. Thomas was thrashing about, screaming, screaming for help and for Chuck and Teresa and for Newt. His body twisted and contorted, his eyes opening and shutting wildly, his breathing rapid.

Newt had had his fill.

He approached the bed, and laid a ghostly hand on Tommy, his Tommy. He figured Tommy couldn't feel his presence, yet he froze.

"It wasn't your fault. It's what I wanted. You were brave, Tommy, bloody brave," Newt whispered. "You saved me, and shuck, I owe you, you shank." Newt sniffled. "I am okay. I am finally okay because of what you did. Now it's time for you to be bloody okay. Tell Minho. He won't hate you. You won't lose him. Take care of each other. Bloody take care of yourself. My Tommy."

"Newt?" Thomas murmured sleepily, his voice cracking slightly. "Newt?"

"Go back to sleep." Newt pressed a gentle kiss to Tommy's forehead, and Tommy settled back into the bed.

Now to wait.

The next day, Newt watched from a distance as Tommy approached Minho. His two friends sat down. Newt figured that it wasn't his business to know what was said. All he knew was that about halfway through the conversation, Tommy started to cry, and Minho pulled him into a bear hug. He didn't let go for a long time. Newt could see that Minho was crying, too, and at one point, Minho looked straight at Newt like he could see him. Newt wouldn't have been surprised if Minho could see him. He was a bloody perceptive shank.

After the conversation, Tommy cracked a smile at dinner.

That night, Tommy slept peacefully.

As for Newt, well, as he watched Tommy sleep, the room around him began to fade. He was in a new place. He could see faces, Chuck, Alby, Ben, even Teresa. A man who looked a lot like him and a woman that had the exact same shade of hair. They were all smiling; they all beckoned for him to join them.

Newt figured that it was time that he take care of himself. Tommy was okay.

"Goodnight, Tommy," he whispered, and with that, he was no more.


End file.
